


I Have Found The One My Soul Loves

by The_Wavesinger



Series: where now she wanders [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dol Amroth, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"They say that the Elven-lady, along with her companion, a beautiful Elven-woman, watches over the line of the Princes and weeps for every one of her children, and children-of-her-children."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A story about Mithrellas and Nimrodel, after they find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Found The One My Soul Loves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karari/gifts).
  * Inspired by [An Enquiry into the Matter of Gilmith of Dol Amroth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5686729) by [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/pseuds/Elleth). 



> This draws heavily on Elleth's wonderful fic _An Inquiry into the Matter of Gilmith of Dol Amroth_ , and though I've done my best to make sure this stands on its own, I do suggest you read it, because it is a thing of beauty. (And thank you, Elleth, for letting me plunder your ideas!)
> 
> I've used 'Gnomes' (from The Book of Lost Tales) for Noldor in the first segment, for lack of a suitable alternative. The use of 'Valinor' where 'Aman' would be more correct is intentional.
> 
> The title is paraphrased from Song of Solomon 3:4.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Himring for beta-reading! All remaining mistakes are. of course, mine.
> 
> And I hope you enjoy this, Karari!

“ _Oddly enough, we come to rely upon our own stories so much that it seems that all we can tell ourselves are stories as well…”  
_ —Roger C. Shank, Tell Me A Story

 

 

* * *

 

 

What's that you're saying, stranger? You want a story? Alright, I'll give you one.

 

Here's a story: Nimrodel was a fair Elven-lady, who left the woods her heart was given to for love of the Elven-prince Amroth, to sail away to Valinor. But Amroth drowned, in the Bay of Belfalas, and Nimrodel was lost.

 

More? Very well.

 

Here's a story: Mithrellas was the wife of Imrazôr, and an Elf. She bore him two children, Galador and Gilmith, before fleeing back into the woods from whence she had come to her husband's arms, and history does not record anything more.

 

What, you say, those aren't good enough? And you'll stay until you've forced a story out of me? Very well. I'll give you a tale that very few storytellers can tell you, if you'll go away after I've finished. I'll tell you about Nimrodel and Mithrellas.

 

Mithrellas, you see, had been Nimrodel's handmaiden before Amroth came and swept her off her feet—and a mighty fine sweeping it must've been, the lady was so attached to her home-forest. Almost the forest's lover...

 

Oh, where was I? Mithrellas. Oh yes. It had been her duty to protect Nimrodel—but she had failed. She'd failed where it mattered, failed to protect Nimrodel's heart, and Nimrodel had fallen in love with Amroth, you might say, but I prefer to think that she failed to not lose her. Losing a person is terribly easy, you see.

 

And so Mithrellas found herself at Dol Amroth, and suddenly she was Lord—or some such title—Imrazôr's wife.

 

No romance. Not yet. Sorry.

 

What? No, she wasn't unwilling. At least, not in this story. He loved her enough to do just about anything for her, and she loved him too—in her own way, at least. Of course, she loved Nimrodel more, but that's neither here nor there. Not yet.

 

And Mithrellas and Imrazôr had a couple of children. Gilmith and Galador—ah, but you've heard of him. He's the first Lord of Dol Amroth. Blood of Elves, Elven-children, the whole lot of them. Not Elven-children like the Dúnedain, of course, and so much the better for it; the blood of gods is hardly worth the price you pay if, by some accident of birth, it flows strong in your veins. Neither's the blood of the Gnomes, the Doomed lot of them.

 

...Sorry, I'm rambling. Anyway, Mithrellas and Imrazôr had two children, but Mithrellas was never really happy. And so, one day, she left.

 

Some say Nimrodel was calling for her (yes, now it's _yet_ ). I think she was.

 

But I also don't think they sailed away to Valinor, to forever-bliss.

 

Why not, you ask? They've found each other, and all's well, you say? Well, you've forgotten a few things, haven't you?

 

Nimrodel had gone off with stars in her eyes about Amroth, hadn't she? And she'd spent a long, long time alone in the forests, even before him, and most definitely after. She would've been very strange, to say the least.

 

And Mithrellas left her children, remember, and her husband? Maybe she didn't mind, maybe didn't like them all that much. But she left them, and that would've laid heavy on her mind. Don't forget that she spent years with mortals; years she spent grieving her lover, being torn apart. And Nimrodel wouldn't've understood any of this; she'd led a pretty sheltered life, don't you know?

 

And there's that debacle with Gilmith, who was unhappy and looked for her mother and couldn't find her and wanted to be an Elf (I may have gotten one or two details mixed up about her, but that's the gist of what I was told by—someone, never you mind who), but she couldn't, and she was unhappy, and she drowned before her time.

 

But Mithrellas and Nimrodel were off in the woods, and that's it.

 

...What, disappointed? I never said this was a happy story, did I? Count your blessings; I could've told you of Malbeth the Seer and her last days, or of the werewolves of Sauron from long ago. This story ended in a sort-of for both of them. Shouldn't that be enough?

 

They lived, ever after. The end. Now go away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_But, of course, the end of one tale is the beginning of another._

 

 

* * *

 

 

At first, Mithrellas and Nimrodel had tried to keep track of the days and years, and the passing of the seasons, as they wandered through the mountains and river-vales of the land humans called Gondor. They'd soon given up this practice; time was of no importance when they had as much of it as they wanted, and an unwelcome reminder of the past.

 

It was the past, however, which Nimrodel brought up as they lay entwined together in the fresh-smelling grass of a forest clearing one sunny evening.

 

It was Mithrellas who first spoke.

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love _you_.”

 

A pause.

 

“Will we stay here tonight, or—”

 

“Stay, I think. Unless you want to move on?”

 

“No, staying is fine.”

 

“Mm-hmmm.”

 

Again, silence. Then, “Mithrellas.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you want to visit Dol Amroth?”

 

“What?” Mithrellas' eyes snapped open, and she propped herself up onto her elbows. “Why—why would I do that?”

 

“Because your children are there?” Nimrodel knew that mothers were fascinated with their children. Mithrellas, Nimrodel knew, through her stories, was a mother. Therefore, it stood to reason that Mithrellas would wish to see her children.

 

Mithrellas did not reply to this.

 

“Do you not wish to go, then?”

 

Her eyes crinkled at their corners, and, Nimrodel could have sworn one of those perfect brown arms trembled. After a long moment, Mithrellas answered, “No.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mithrellas' answer should be enough, but Nimrodel found herself utterly fascinated by the topic.

 

“Mithrellas, do you want to visit Dol Amroth?”

 

“No.”

 

“Mithrellas, do you want to visit Dol Amroth?”

 

“No.”

 

“Mithrellas, do you want to visit Dol Amroth?”

 

“No.”

 

“Mithrellas, do you want to visit Dol Amroth?”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Mithrellas, do you want to visit Dol Amroth?”

 

“No,” she snapped (and that in itself was an unusual occurrence, for Mithrellas was usually soft-spoken and gentle). “I do _not_ want to visit Dol Amroth. If you are so insistent upon it, you can go there yourself.”

 

It was a fine idea. An solitary expedition of the sort they'd silently agreed on was long overdue, and Mithrellas doubtless needed some time to herself. Why not satisfy Nimrodel's own curiosity in the process? And so Nimrodel found herself setting off, slipping away in the cover of the night (as was their tradition) to find Mithrellas' children.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was the son Nimrodel had hoped to see, but he proved impossible to locate; the daughter, on the other hand, was easy to find, easier to follow.

 

She was a scrawny thing, Nimrodel decided, with none of her mother's grace and beauty, though her slanted grey eyes and wavy brown hair were certainly Mithrellas'. Her skin, however was several shades darker even than Mithrellas', and she held herself in a way which was utterly different from Mithrellas' mannerisms.

 

Mithrellas had lain with a man, Nimrodel realized as she stared at the girl. Mithrellas had lain with a man, a mortal man, and only his mortality had prevented a bond-between-souls from forming between them. Mithrellas had lain with a mortal man, and had begotten a child—no, two children—from his seed.

 

On the journey back, Nimrodel found herself trembling and pacing, and once, in an unguarded moment, a tear slipped out of her eye.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Nimrodel!”

 

Nimrodel heard Mithrellas laugh, and her own laughter bubbled in her throat as she caught sight of her lover, clad in a rough-spun dress, her hair streaming down her back, her face full of joy. An answering cry pealed out to join to laughter:

 

“Mithrellas!”

 

They ran the last few steps, collapsing into waiting arms, devouring each other's mouths as if starving. It was a deep, passionate kiss, and when they pulled away, both were breathless.

 

Mithrellas traced her thumb over Nimrodel's lips. “Are you hungry?”

 

“Only for you, love,” Nimrodel whispered, and they were kissing again, pulling at each other's clothes.

 

Somehow, with her new knowledge of Mithrellas' past and of her children, Nimrodel had expected to feel—something, something strange, but it was no different, their coupling once Nimrodel returned, still as sweet and passionate and full of joy as before.

 

Afterwards, they lay tangled together in a blanket of blissful silence. At length, Mithrellas spoke.

 

“Now I remember why we agreed on these partings.”

 

“For the lovemaking that is the reward,” Nimrodel replied, and for a moment, all thoughts of Imrazôr were forgotten.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Nimrodel found herself kissed awake by her lover. “It is a lovely morning, is it not?”

 

“Only because of you,” Nimrodel murmured, pulling Mithrellas down for another kiss, soft and languid and lazy. Imrazôr must have kissed her, too, she thought, and suddenly, the morning was less pleasant as memories of the previous days rushed upon her.

 

“You flatter me, love.”

 

Nimrodel did not respond, her fingers slipping through Mithrellas' hair. _Imrazôr had done this, once,_ came the thought, unbidden, and bile rose to her throat.

 

“Why did you marry him?”

 

Mithrellas tensed under Nimrodel's hands. “Who? Imrazôr?”

 

“Who else?”

 

“Nimrodel, it is a beautiful morning, and such talk will spoil it—”

 

“Why?” Nimrodel pressed, and Mithrellas sighed.

 

“I was half-mad with grief, and I—he was there, he took me in, he never left my side.” _Unlike you,_ were the words that remained unsaid.

 

“Did you love him?” Nimrodel found herself unable to look at Mithrellas' eyes, choosing, instead, to stare at the lips which were forming words.

 

“I did,” Mithrellas whispered. Then, “I do.”

 

“I am sorry—” Mithrellas began, but she stopped. Sudden resolve passed over her face. “I will not apologize for loving him. I love you more than I have ever loved, or will love, anyone in my life, but I cannot unlove those I gave pieces of my heart to.”

 

Nimrodel closed her eyes. The words she sought refused to appear; anger and betrayal ran, muted, under a chant of _hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite._

 

“Nimrodel?” A hand on her cheek; when Nimrodel opened her eyes, Mithrellas loomed over her. “Nimrodel, I love you more than anything, never doubt that.”

 

“I do not,” Nimrodel said, holding Mithrellas' gaze. But after a moment, she turned away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She did not know why, but she found herself at Dol Amroth again. She stared at Mithrellas' daughter, followed her covertly, and tried not to think of Imrazôr.

 

It was the second of many visits.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You never talk about your children,” Nimrodel murmured to Mithrellas one evening, as she sat in the shade of a tree with Mithrellas' head on her lap.

 

“Gilmith and Galador?” A smile tugged at Mithrellas' lips. “I did not know you wanted to hear about them.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Well...” Mithrellas seemed to cast about for a topic. Then, “Imrazôr named Gilmith,” and again, the familiar tug of jealousy at his name, “he was always more of a romantic than I was—I spent all my romance on wishes for your return. I chose Galador's name—a solid name, it seems, now, but Imrazôr—”

 

“I asked about your children, not that mortal,” Nimrodel snapped.

 

Mithrellas's face froze into a mask. “We were a family. I will speak of us as we were, or not at all.”

 

“I—” Nimrodel sighed. “I went to Dol Amroth, and I saw your daughter. Gilmith.” Not an apology, but a peace-offering.

 

“Oh.” Mithrellas' voice was still cold.

 

“Do you—want to hear of her?”

 

“No.” At Nimrodel's look, Mithrellas shook her head, her face softening. “I cannot, Nimrodel. It is not because of you. Or—it is, a little, but there are other reasons too, and—” She broke off, burrowed her head deeper into the folds of Nimrodel's skirt. “I will not talk about them.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“She is looking for you, Mithrellas. She looks for any word of Elves.”

 

Nimrodel had heard of Gilmith's search on her last sojourn to Dol Amroth, and she spoke of it as she plaited Mithrellas' hair. “Your daughter is looking for you.”

 

Her intentions were not charitable. If Mithrellas saw her daughter, Nimrodel had decided at some point during her journeys to Dol Amroth, she would—do what, Nimrodel did not know, but the part of her which loved Imrazôr would—stop. Stop loving him.

 

(Some part of her pointed out that she had loved Amroth; more, indeed, at that time than she had loved Mithrellas. But she did not love him still. And _now_ was all that mattered.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Again and again, Mithrellas' beauty awed Nimrodel, and now, she stood naked, in a stream, bathing, Nimrodel felt her breath catch. The sun caressed her brown skin, and water slicked her brown hair almost black, tiny droplets forming jewels on Mithrellas' back.

 

Her own dress was hastily removed as she rushed to join her lover in the water. “You are breathtakingly beautiful, my own.”

 

Nimrodel felt Mithrellas shiver as she slipped a hand onto her back. “As are you, love.”

 

“Thank you.” A kiss dropped onto Mithrellas' shoulderblades, and Nimrodel moved lower, mouthing at her lover's spine.

 

A day spent like this was a day well-spent; bliss, indeed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I should visit Dol Amroth,” Nimrodel said.

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“I have not been there for some time.”

 

“Of course.” Mithrellas nodded absently and went back to her weaving.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gilmith was older, taller, more—adult. More careworn. Elves did not grow like this. Elves did not show signs of the passing years so quickly on their faces and bodies.

 

But then, Nimrodel thought, she was not only an Elven-child. She had _Imrazôr's_ blood too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Mithrellas?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Tell me more of Imrazôr. Why did you love him?”

 

Mithrellas' face, which had been tender and laughing before, suddenly shut off. “No.”

 

“You are being unreasonable.”

 

“No, I cannot speak of that. Not now, Nimrodel.”

 

And, no matter how much Nimrodel pleaded with her, she would not respond.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gilmith grew ever more and more like Mithrellas in face. Of her brother Nimrodel heard only rumors, but Gilmith blossomed into the image of her mother. Nimrodel had heard mortals whisper of her strangeness while in Dol Amroth, but to her eyes, she was beautiful.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were both laughing and panting as Nimrodel chased Mithrellas through the trees.

 

“Give up, Mithrellas!” Nimrodel called. “Give up!”

 

“Never!” Mithrellas laughed, and in her laughter, she tripped.

 

Nimrodel was upon her in an instant, attacking her sides, running fingers across tender skin over ribs and under arms, tickling Mithrellas as she giggled and squirmed. “Let me go,” Mithrellas begged between breaths, but Nimrodel's grip held firm. A few more well-placed tickles, then, “Please, Nimrodel, _please_. I give in.”

 

“Very well.” Nimrodel sighed dramatically and slowly, gracefully, moved off her lover.

 

Mithrellas was on her in an instant, and the forest rang with their laughter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As her visits to Dol Amroth increased, the viciousness of her thoughts about Imrazôr decreased. Time, Nimrodel supposed, had dimmed her jealousy, but it was still there; it was still too much. It needed to end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She would talk to Gilmith, Nimrodel decided. This strange obsession with Gilmith and Imrazôr would have to stop. Talking to Gilmith—not of who she was, but a few words, a casual conversation, maybe the weather, maybe of fishing or of books or history—would be a step on that path. She would talk to her. She would talk to Gilmith today.

 

Nimrodel took a deep breath and walked, at what she hoped was a sedate pace, to a stall she knew Gilmith frequented with every fresh stock bought (searching for news of her mother, no doubt), pretending to browse through the scrolls on display. There were words prepared, but when Gilmith arrived a good half an hour later (after Nimrodel had accumulated several curious looks from the stall-owner), what slipped out was: “You are Gilmith?”

 

“Yes?” There was an inquisitive note in Gilmith's voice.

 

“I—” Nimrodel saw the curves of Mithrellas' face reflected on her daughter's, along with a hint of—other. Of him, Imrazôr. And lines, deep lines of worry and deep bitterness; these were purely Gilmith's own.

 

“Are you alright, ma'am?” Polite, aloof. And it should be so easy to hate, but even the timbre of her voice was Mithrellas, mixed with Imrazôr, and—

 

“Ma'am?”

 

“I have news of your mother,” Nimrodel said quietly.

 

It should not have been said. But she had said it, and now it could not be taken back, so she rushed on: “They say you have been searching for her; I came to tell you that she has been sighted with another Elven-lady.”

 

“Nimrodel,” Gilmith breathed.

 

Nimrodel blinked, and, inside her, some organ twisted involuntarily.

 

“The lady you speak of, her name is Nimrodel. My mother used to tell us stories about her; she loved her very much.” Gilmith had been smiling dreamily, her voice nostalgic, but as she went on, her lips twisted: “More than me and my brother, I think. She was obsessed with Nimrodel—”

 

 _Obsessed._ Enough. Nimrodel fled.

 

Her feet pounded on the cobblestones, and she was followed by shouts and exclamations, but she ran, and ran, and ran, leaving thought behind her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As she lay in a panting heap, some distance away from Dol Amroth, Nimrodel came to two realizations: she did not care what Mithrellas had done with Imrazôr, or whether she loved him. And Mithrellas needed to hear more about her daughter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

An apology, then. But an apology was not—Mithrellas had not truly been wounded with her words. It was herself Nimrodel had wounded the deepest with jealousy and mistrust, and she would learn to forgive herself. An apology was not necessary.

 

It was of Gilmith that she needed to speak.

 

“Mithrellas,” Nimrodel said, two evenings after she returned. “Mithrellas, your daughter seeks you.”

 

“I have heard this before,” Mithrellas replied quietly, twirling two strands of her own hair between her fingers. “I do not want to know.”

 

“Mithrellas,” Nimrodel said, again. “Mithrellas, I am sorry—” (and maybe an apology was necessary after all) “—I am sorry did not understand, about Imrazôr, but your daughter—”

 

“Does not need me,” Mithrellas interrupted.

 

“But—”

 

“I, too, am sorry,” Mithrellas whispered, “But I cannot hurt her again.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nimrodel tried, again and again. And yet Mithrellas would not give in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“She will be delighted to see you, no matter for how short a time.”

 

“No.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“She searches for you. Do you not think she wants you there?”

 

“No.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You love her.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But you will not go to her.”

 

“No.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Until, one day, “I want to see her. I want to see my daughter.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I will see her,” Mithrellas said quietly, but when pressed for reasons, she only replied: “I saw her in my dreams.”

 

Nimrodel blinked. “Your dreams?”

 

“Dreams,” Mithrellas murmured, “Of ships and drowning. I must find her before it is too late—” And here she broke off for a moment. “But she was full-grown in those dreams, and she will age as we do, not as a mortal. I—we—still have time.”

 

Nimrodel, who had seen Gilmith age, did not reply.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Could you go and speak with her, bring her to me? I do not want to go to the city.”

 

Nimrodel had agreed. Now, she wished she had never brought the subject of Gilmith up, never even thought of her, because she could not—

 

How could she stand here and tell Mithrellas? And yet—she must. “Mithrellas—” Nimrodel spoke haltingly, slowly. “Mithrellas, she is dead.”

 

“Gilmith is dead,” Mithrellas said quietly. “My daughter is dead.”

 

She had wished for this, once, long ago, in a fleeting moment of complete, all-consuming selfishness. Nimrodel had wished for the day Mithrellas' children would die, so that they could be, once more, the two of them, happy and carefree as they had been before. Now she could not unwish it. “I am sorry,” she offered.

 

Mithrellas turned away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nimrodel woke in the night to footsteps.

 

“Where are you going, Mithrellas?”

 

Mithrellas said, calm and composed, “To the sea.”

 

Nimrodel laughed; she could not help it. “To take back your daughter?”

 

“Yes.”

 

And this was even more hilarious, and Nimrodel found herself doubled over. But Mithrellas did not join her, and Nimrodel looked up to a set, determined face. “You are in earnest.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Mithrellas!” Nimrodel leapt up and grabbed her lover's hands. “What madness has taken you, love? Stay with me. Stay with me, here.”

 

“My daughter is dead,” Mithrellas whispered, and tears glistened, for a moment, in her eyes, before they were blinked away. “My daughter is dead.”

 

“You have a son still.”

 

“But my daughter is dead.” Mithrellas wrenched her hands away from Nimrodel. “And I must take her back.” She turned, and walked away.

 

“No!” Nimrodel scrambled after her. “No! Mithrellas!”

 

Mithrellas did not stop walking. “I must.”

 

“Then let me come with you.”

 

A pause. Then, “Why?”

 

“Because I love you.” And, springing unplanned to her lips, “Because she is your daughter. Because you love her, and her son, and her father.”

 

“Very well. But only as far as the shore.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I must leave you here,” Mithrellas said one night. They were in a clearing, still in the forest but near the shore, near enough that they could hear the roar of waves on the sand.

 

Nimrodel stilled the words of protests which rose to her lips and kissed her lover. “Come back soon.”

 

Mithrellas nodded, and walked away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She could not sleep. She could not sleep, and so she paced the clearing, waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for Mithrellas to return.

 

The dark shape she saw as the moonlight shone through the trees she dismissed at first; her mind had created enough phantoms this night. But there was the sound of footsteps now, and—

 

“Mithrellas?”

 

A long silence. Then,

 

“Nimrodel.”

 

Mithrellas came to the clearing as Nimrodel stood, transfixed, staring at her approaching form, but she stopped, waiting at the tree-line for a time, close enough that Nimrodel could see the otherness in her eyes, the look of someone far, far away, but far enough that Nimrodel could not reach out to touch her. The gap between them was small, but Nimrodel found herself rooted to the spot, unable to move.

 

Her voice, however, was not gone, and so she spoke:

 

“Mithrellas?”

 

This broke whatever trance Mithrellas may have been caught in; she walked the last few steps to Nimrodel's arms, steps which felt an eternity long, and then they fell into each other.

 

“You are safe,” Nimrodel whispered, tracing Mithrellas' cheekbones after that first kiss. “You are safe.”

 

“Yes.” Mithrellas nodded. She was safe. And yet—

 

“There is no other with you.” No Gilmith. Mithrellas' daughter was not there.

 

“Yes.” Again, the same answer, Mithrellas' face again the same stoic mask.

 

Swallowing, Nimrodel asked, “What of your daughter?”

 

Mithrellas smiled, now, a tremulous but gentle smile. “She is happy—or, at least, will learn to be—and that is all that matters.” The faraway look in her eyes melted, and she took Nimrodel's hand in hers. “I have much to tell you.”

 

Together, they walked into the woods.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are tales among the people of Dol Amroth which speak of Elven-blood in the veins of the noble house. These tales also speak of a beautiful but sad Elven-lady who married the father of their first lord, a lady who disappeared after giving him a son. They say that the Elven-lady and her companion, a beautiful Elven-woman, watch over the line of the Princes, and that the Elven-lady weeps for every one of her children, and children-of-her-children.

 

A rare few of these tales speak of the sister of their first lord, and how she was lost to the sea, and how the Elven-lady wept tears of diamond and stardust for her.

 

And rarer still, rare as a mallorn-tree in the forests of Gondor, are the tales of Lady Gilmith and her quest for her mother, and how the sea took her as lover, for a short time. These tales speak of how the water gave to the mother, in exchange for her daughter, protection for the children of her line. The water watches the line of Dol Amroth, they say, and the Princes are under its protection. The water is in their blood, and they are tied to it, by love and longing and by their very life.


End file.
